I don’t know why I was surprised. I knew when I started paging through the church newsletters from 30 years of Larry’s ministry that I might find some “treasures” among the various musings typical of such writings: promotions of upcoming events, worship and educational opportunities, celebrations, the state of the congregation, and of course, the infamous stewardship appeals. And there in the folder labeled 1985 was the article Larry wrote a year after his own father’s death in 1984.

It will soon be 2 years since Larry died, and though this anniversary is not as difficult as the first, it still manages to taunt and coax emotions. But you see, when I read this particular article I knew it was something I wanted to share, particularly with my children.

It is a mystery to me how God works in our lives. But, I am certain this little “gem” was there for me to find and read today. And that was God’s doing. Because death has likely affected all of us in some way, I would like to share—

Easter, 1985

About this time last year my father began his final days of life. On that Easter Sunday a phone call informed me that he had collapsed and was in the intensive care unit at the hospital. The emphysema had escalated, and its various effects were beginning to come together for the final assault which would end his life on Mother’s Day.

In the year since then I have come to know him differently than when he was alive. As I remember our times together, a new understanding of his words and deeds is given birth. The faith in which he lived, the principles for which he stood, and the love with which he reached out seem to be more sharply defined. Particularly his love.

There is a pain which accompanies these memories. It is not the pain of absence, although I miss him greatly. It is, rather, the pain of silence; the pain of having left unsaid the words which I would like to have said. The memories bring with them the realization that I put up barriers which were not necessary; that there were opportunities to speak love which, for reasons I no longer remember, I let pass. The pain of silence is the memory which asks, “Why couldn’t I speak my love?”

Easter brings a word of grace to us, who suffer this pain of silence. For the Resurrected Lord promises that the words may yet be spoken. Death does not have the last word. And because of this, the words spoken—or left unspoken—in this world are not the last words to be spoken, either. The conversation has merely been interrupted for awhile. The day will come when, gathered together again in a new and eternal life, we will have the opportunity to continue the conversation, speaking the words of our heart. The day will come when all shall be forgiven, and love will speak loudest.

In the meantime, we can practice for that day, speaking the words of the heart to one another.

Well, I wasn’t going to write this year, but now that time is at a premium, it seemed like the Keene thing to do. I have always worked best under pressure, and I have to leave shortly for the airport, so now is the time.

2013 turned out to be a fairly uneventful one, aside from the birth of my fifth granddaughter, Melody Scott, born the last day of April, now sharing her birthday with Saul’s wife, Cheryl. She is a delight, and her sister, Penelope loves her, as do her three cousins, Ryan, Henley and Gemma. When we have our Monthly Keene Sunday gathering, it is quite busy and loud. Needless to say, there is much giggling, screaming, running and “fighting.” After all, that’s what little kids do. Plus, they always seem to survive, despite the parents.

I continue to do some substitute teaching here and there, but I have also started working retail for the holiday season. I call my job at James Avery Jewelers my “hobby jobbie.” I enjoy the change, although, not having ever worked retail before, there is a lot to learn. And, it’s good to be on the other side of the counter for a change. It gives me a whole new perspective on the unhappy customer.

Travel took me to St. Louis twice this year—once for my mother’s 88th birthday and once for the annual Slovakfest at the church where I was baptized, confirmed and married. Spending time with family and many dear friends was special. In August, I went with my brother-in-law, Art, on a drive from Los Angeles to Medford, Oregon, to spend some time with our sister-in-law, Betsy and her children. The visit was cut short, however, because of the forest fires that were sending smoke throughout the region. Apparently, this is an annual occurrence for that time of year. It was a beautiful area, when you could see the hills.

In December, I returned to Florida and Disneyworld to see family and Mickey Mouse. I got to watch some of the filming for the Disney Christmas Day Parade that will be shown “live” on TV on Christmas Day. At Epcot we were treated to the Christmas Candlelight Choirs performance with Whoopi Goldberg presenting the Christmas narrative. I was so glad to be able to spend time with my brother, Steve, and his wife, Carol.

And now I am back to Houston, my daily schedule and routines, my “hobby jobbie” and the people I love and care for the most. I had the morning to myself today, so I cleaned up the patio, trimmed up the deck plants, and headed out to run errands.

After rushing to Kroger to get the last of the fixings for the traditional Christmas Eve meal for my family gathering, I remembered Larry having written about this event in a Kwikies. It was dated December 28, 2001. I pulled it up on the computer, and having re-read it, I had some laughs, shed a few tears (of course), and remembered the events of that particular Christmas Eve. Allow me to share this Kwikies entitled “Christmas Traditions” with you, as once again I will be celebrating Christmas Eve in the same tradition with all three children, their spouses, five granddaughters, and also, my brother-in-law, Art and nephew, Brandon.

Kwikies, 12/28/01Christmas Traditions

Well, I guess I shouldn’t have used my kids as the illustration to kick off the Christmas Eve sermon, gloating as I did about last year when Sue and I got to wake them on Christmas morning after they’d been asleep for only a couple of hours or so due to doing what college kids do best, i.e., partying. But the public gloat of that memory was worth all the years when I did Christmas Day on less than two hours’ sleep, having spent Christmas Eve after worship assembling toys and such. Not to mention it was a foretaste of the feast to come (though I hope not too soon) when they themselves will lose sleep over their own children, while grandpa and grandma are tucked snugly in bed (hopefully on a boat in the Caribbean, but probably not, since I know already that She Whom God Gave Me would never permit such an absence). In any case, justice is sweet.

Though they, having heard the sermon, I suppose resolved not to permit that illustration again, so that on Christmas Day Mom and I did not have the opportunity to jump on their beds and rip off their blankets yelling, “It’s Christmas! It’s Christmas! Time to open gifts!” We all got up at about the same time and eventually, after 45 minutes of making coffee and other preparations, got around to opening gifts. We do it by turns, and that works pretty well, except for this year Deborah’s boyfriend, Jonathan, who is from Ohio and had spent Christmas Eve with us, also had 10 bazillion gifts from his family, and still had a stack of them when we were all done, this earning the requisite Keene grief for it.

Our Christmas celebration officially begins on Christmas Eve at about 4:00 (depending on what time I have to be at church) with a mongrelized traditional Slovak Christmas dinner inherited from my wife’s side of bean soup, sausage, potato pancakes, and some other stuff. I say mongrelized because the potato pancakes are not really Slovak, being also known as German pancakes. They’re a compromised substitute for something called “halushki” (I don’t have a clue as to the spelling), which looks like boiled big bird droppings and tastes like cement. Real Slovaks love ‘em; they swoon over them (or it, again, I don’t know). They’re supposed to be served with fried cabbage, which led to our First Christmas Argument, eventually leading to the Second Great Compromise of marital life: I’ll do without the turkey dinner on Christmas if you’ll do without the halushki. So we have German potato pancakes, which are good even if out of a box, but not like my grandma used to make.

The meal, though, actually begins with what now will be forever known as “The Hastings Cheer of Christmas,” again from the Slovak side of the family: a little devotional service complete with unaccompanied singing which we don’t handle very devotionally, and square communion wafers (you know, the ones that taste like styrofoam) with honey drizzled on them. Another Slovak custom of smearing honey on the foreheads of single folks so that it reflects in the candlelight of church and all know who’s eligible, was also dropped pretty early on—about as soon as the kids could object—in my recollection.

It got nailed with the “Hastings Cheer” moniker by son, Saul, who was a good, part time employee of Hastings Books in Seguin until the day he got into a tiff with his manager about his refusal to do the “Hastings Cheer” at an employee meeting one Saturday morning about 7:00, which is not a good time for any college student, to wit: “Do the cheer.” “No. What does doing the cheer have to do with serving the customers well?” “Do the cheer or quit.”

So, he’s currently unemployed. The Hastings Cheer story has entered the Keene Anthology of Silliness in the World, and when, in explaining to Jonathan the upcoming devotional service connected with our meal, he quipped, “Oh yeah, the Hastings Cheer of Christmas,” we all knew that whatever slight bit of pious seriousness still clung to that thing was now gone forever. Indeed, we laughed so hard while hearing about the Word made flesh and singing “Silent Night” and drizzling honey on styrofoam wafers, that we will never be able to be religiously somber with it again, except for maybe the first time somebody is missing at the table, and even then probably not for very long.

Sue, of course, is the tradition setter in our house, and has taken great doses of (usually good-natured) grief about it over the years, especially from me. But I’m thankful for it because that is the foundation upon which these other things can happen for us. And even when we laugh, still there is this moment which binds us together in love and strengthens us for the future with cherished memories.

Because the Word did become flesh, you know, borne into a family with traditions and such. And so made these things holy and good.

Larry

Christmas is a time to remember and to create new memories. Whatever your celebrations or traditions, I hope your moments together are good and blessed.

During these first weeks of summer I have spent some time with resting, recreation, and reflection. My son, Joel, and I have talked time and again about posting on the Keene’s Kwikies blog, but “busyness” always seems to get in the way. But, today I decided to share some of my reflections.

I was watching a movie the other day and the main character was speaking of his deceased loved one. He remarked that “there is no memorial or headstone to mark his remains or memory.” I was struck by this as I made the conscious decision to have Larry’s remains cremated and scattered in places I felt would please him. This discussion between Larry and I actually took place one time long before he became ill. In asking what he even would like to have happen upon his death, his response was “I won’t care, so do what you want.” Not being one to experience comfort from visiting a “spot,” I was certain that the ocean—he being a sailor of sorts– and the golfing grounds he frequented annually with his buddies were the appropriate locations. And so it was done.

As for the blog, I have often wondered of his musings on newsworthy issues. On the national scene: the death of Bin Laden, the 2012 election, Newtown and gun control, healthcare, immigration, DOMA, and the most recent announcement that Good Hair Perry will not seek reelection to the governorship. Add to that the various weather tragedies: hurricane Sandy and tornadoes in Oklahoma.

Within the church: the reelection of Bishop Mike, the election of the first openly gay bishop in a committed relationship, and the retirements, travels and deaths of clergy colleagues.

And on the home scene: the births of two new granddaughters, namely, Gemma Lawrence, and Melody Scott, middle-named in his honor, the 92nd birthday of his mother, and lastly, life at home (pretty much around the clock) with his spouse, namely She Who Must Be Obeyed, who retired this past year. I’m certain this increased togetherness would have provided plenty of material to write about.

I am left only to imagine. But, I am sure it would be profoundly well said.

Having Larry’s writings has been a blessing for me. It is a visit, a reminder, and a nudge. Recently, I came across this Kwikies entitled Wedding Bell Blues that was originally posted on May 4, 2005. This Sunday would be the 40th anniversary of our commitment to marriage. Clearly the marriage was not perfect, but it survived and love endured. So with or without your permission:

Keenes Kwikies, 5/4/2005

Wedding Bell Blues

It is, perhaps, pretty close to being almost official that this little corner of the Keene clan will experience its first wedding since She Who Must Be Obeyed and I hooked up back in 1973 (July 14th, to be exact, which, as you undoubtedly know and celebrate, is Bastille Day in France and has been a nice summary of our marriage experience since, oh, July 16th of that year, as in the storming of it). Boner—my eldest—is going to commit formally in the presence of God and all to Mute Girl (she who said nothing the first time our family met her—for obviously good reasons if you’ve ever been at one of our family gatherings: it’s bad enough to meet the family of the boyfriend, even worse when his dad is a preacher, and even worse than that when pastordad smokes, drinks beer, and goes “Booga, booga, booga!” upon hearing at the table that she’s a little shy—though she has overcome the reticence here more recently and is a real delight: he’s done well) till death them do part.

Thus we’ve been doing the pre-wedding shuffles: when? where? how? And especially, what kind of bucks will be required? Oh, and wouldn’t it be nice for the parents of the groom to meet the parents of the bride maybe even sometime before the event. Calling forth, too, the inevitable fatherly advice to son, the same this pastor shares with all grooms-to-be in pre-marital counseling: “Keep your mouth shut until after the wedding, because you have no say—absolutely zero—in what takes place that day. This is stuff women have been dreaming about since they were, like, four.”

So it is quite timely that my internet buddy, John-Mark, forwarded an editorial article in which William Raspberry quotes World War Two (Lutheran?) faith hero pastor, Dietrich Bonhoeffer writing from his Nazi prison cell in 1943 to a young couple about to be married: “Your love is your own private possession, but marriage is more than something personal—it is a status, an office. Just as it is the crown, and not merely the will to rule, that makes the king, so it is marriage, and not merely your love for each other, that joins you together in the sight of God and man . . . .It is not your love that sustains the marriage, but from now on, the marriage that sustains your love.”

Catch that? “It is not your love that sustains the marriage, but from now on, the marriage that sustains your love.”

I’ve been married for 32 years to the same woman (well, actually not the same woman, because nobody stays the same over that amount of time; it’s not for nothing that we say—unfortunately usually accusatorily—“You’re not the same person I married”; well, duh—but she still has the same name), and I’d say about eight of those years have been good, as in, The Way I Want It To Be. Her number of years of Having The Husband I Want might be even fewer, though I can’t imagine how. We’ve come real close to divorce a few times (but no more than can be counted on one, no, two hands), but backed off.

It’s hard to say why we backed off, because when you’re close to divorce, you’re not liking that person very much anyway (with profoundly taxing discipline I avoided sharing with her the new names by which I was referring to her at those times; okay, not names—adjectives). A divorce would have been bad for my career. And when I thought about her raising the kids alone, or with her family, I couldn’t endure the picture of how screwed up they’d be come adulthood. And, of course, I saw first hand the havoc wreaked on the (church) community: a negative impact on worship statistics, the savaging of committees and programs, and declining financial income are just the most obvious of a list that also includes the stress on communal trust as people take sides and, in fact, the demoralization of the community in general, especially if there are kids because the church—or somebody—is going to have to pick up the slack there for the missing parent (and there is always a missing parent; one of the divorcees always leaves the church in which they had been participating).

So we stayed married probably for all the wrong reasons: for the sake of the career, the kids, the community. Nor do we feel strong, romantic notions for one another (well, maybe once a year): our love is defined not so much anymore (if ever) by Valentine’s Day tinglings, but by the history we’ve shared.

Bonhoeffer’s right, you know: it’s not your love that sustains the marriage, but the marriage which sustains your love. The marriage which leads to the one day realization that even when I hate her, I love her more.

It has been relatively quiet as we come to the tail of this year. We’ve been tied up working, taking care of our families, and getting geared up for the holidays. There was much anxiety around this year’s holidays as one might imagine, but we thankfully got to share it together manning our duties at mom’s place on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. Of course, traditions are the same but the flavors are a bit different now with new generations doing the receiving and the older ones doing the Ho, Ho, Ho-ing. To that, the responsibilities of the Keene Family Christmas Letter among other things fall to She Who Hos Alone (keep it in context). Enjoy and Merry Christmas!

–Joel

Christmas 2012

Dear Family and Friends,

This Christmas season will be one of the most difficult to celebrate, as I will be celebrating for the first time without Larry. I remember worshipping last Christmas Eve at Christ the Servant Lutheran along with most of Larry’s family, who came to spend the weeks surrounding Christmas with us at our home.

I am so grateful for that wish of his (he was forever the planner and dreamer) that brought his parents, siblings, nieces and nephews to Houston to celebrate this most holy of seasons together with us.

As this season is now in full swing, I have spent some time reflecting on the changes in my life. Aside from the obvious, I retired from full-time teaching and now work when I want as a substitute teacher.

I am not completely sold on this decision to substitute, but it works for now. I am open to new possibilities. So, if something interesting should present itself, you just never know…

The kids are all very much busy with their own families and careers. I am fortunate that they all live within a reasonable drive from my house, so I get to see them fairly often. They find time to visit and fix things for me here at the house, usually at the cost of a meal with beers. They are also very generous in including me in their family events, and for this I am thankful. We did raise good kids. With much joy,

I am pleased to have a new granddaughter, Gemma Lawrence, who joins her sisters, Ryan and Henley. Another grandchild will join the family in the early spring. He/she will join his/her sister, Penelope.

I want to recognize the gift of new, renewed and strengthened friendships that I experienced this year.

I am in a different place than I was a year ago, and I see things from a different perspective, and that has been good. The presence of these relationships in my life has made things just a bit easier and a little less painful. Thank you.

Sadly, in June, we experienced the death of my stepfather-in-law, Garvin, from cancer. In October, my sister-in-law and dearest friend, Kerry, died due to organ failure while waiting for a transplant. Their absence is profoundly felt.

Along with two trips to California to be with family during those times of loss and mourning, I was also able to make a few other trips. The kids and their families were able to visit me during a week at the lake home of a dear friend. There was much resting, relaxing and some boating on Lake Palestine. One of two trips to St. Louis was for attending my 45th high school class reunion. The thought of going was a little frightening, but I survived, and even had fun. Then a few weeks back, I was able to go to Orlando and visit with my brother, Steve, and his wife, Carol. Attending the Christmas Candlelight Processional and listening to the choirs, while hearing actor, Andy Garcia read the Christmas narrative was a highlight of my visit to Epcot. Turns out the parks aren’t quite as crowded the first week of December as at other times of the year.

My brother-in-law, Art, and his two boys will be joining us for Christmas this year. It will be a different kind of Christmas for both of our families. But, it will be different together. And that will be good.

Traditionally, our family put out a Christmas letter using comic strips that shared a little something of each family member. I came across this strip from Calvin and Hobbes (one of our favorites) that I would like to share. I know Larry would laugh heartily and approve.

Perhaps, he is bouncing to the beat of Brubeck at this very moment.

At the start of every Christmas Eve service, Larry would invite those gathered to share the Christmas greeting in different languages. Folks would volunteer–

Feliz Navidad (Spanish)

Joyeux Noel (French)

Mele Kalikimaka (Hawaiian)

Frohliche Weihnachten (German)

God Jul (Norwegian)

And lastly, Vesele Vianoce (Slovak)

Then he would follow up with, “No matter how you say it, the message is still the same, ‘Merry Christmas’. “

I will miss that this year. But, it gives me a sense of joy that I am able to share this message with you. A blessed Christmas to you and a happy and grace-filled new year!

Everything will be okay in the end. If it is not okay, it is not the end.

—Anonymous

The Keenes are still here. Most of us anyway. Shortly after dad’s passing, my grandfather was diagnosed with various cancers and is already kicking back cold ones with dad as they await the Great Reunion. The rest of us have been dealing with our grief and trying to keep our health in check. Some of us Keene men are wondering if there isn’t more we can do to appease our women as it seems She may have it out for us in the end. But from what I’ve seen, they have suffered more than we, so I have to conclude that at least God isn’t sexist.

Still, this was not my biological grandfather—he passed when I was 5 or 6 leaving behind very fond but few memories. This was the grandfather that raised us. Garvin Aulepp. Aulepp by birth and Keene by association (I hope that’s a compliment). He taught me how to drive a manual, engineer a robot for my C64, and even showed me the value of history by dragging me from one museum to another during a trip to Tucson somewhere in my teen years. Of course, I wasn’t appreciative until much later. In all honesty, I did not much participate in his passing—instead watched it from the sidelines dealing with the needles in my own life.

My mother confronted it wholly staying in California for a month throughout diagnosis, passing, grieving and the death business—she being the current professional in this area. She might be much stronger than the rest of us thought. Or perhaps dad’s passing has instilled in her an Obi Wan-style “this one’s for you kid” attitude in battling daily evils.

She retired this year if you haven’t already heard. She didn’t have to…could’ve kept some things “normal” for a while. Maybe waited another year. She opted not to. And she does family things. Goes to church though that particular experience is never going to be the same. She even stood up to a little road rage the other day—but prepared her escape plan to the nearest officer first. She’s coping.

I stared at the headlining quote on my trombone professor’s wall for a couple of year in grad school. Professor Tim Conner—whose title was unfortunately unofficial at the time I was studying because I couldn’t imagine a better definition of a professor. I don’t know if that has changed. But his partner picked up this saying in a piece of art during a visit to Thailand or some other exotic scape of the Orient. Tim had it on his wall pretty much at eye level so it made it unavoidable staring material during warm-up and memorized exercises.

It stuck with me immediately because I liked so many things about it. As many paradoxes usually go, it is a bit pointless. It is only mostly positive or at least has those connotations. It doesn’t guarantee anything. Which lead me to conclude it is mostly about coping. It turns out, that’s one of the primary things dad wanted for his kids (and others) —to be able to cope. As my Teta (and Rev.) Carol wrote “He asked me what I wanted for my kids and I told him: ‘for them to be happy. Why…don’t you want that?’ He replied ‘I just need them to be able to cope. That should be enough.’” Of course, my memory may elude me, so I’ll call that a paraphrase.

Happiness is not at all guaranteed. Even America can only guarantee the right to pursue it. In the end, you are stuck dealing with the consequences of the actions of you and those around you. And every system has an air of pointlessness to it. And how do you define happiness in binary? Things seem mostly positive.

The family post-Larry refers to coping as “putting our big boy/girl panties on,” which is what one has to do after something that triggers a wave of paralyzing grief still leaves a — quite often chaotic—situation to be dealt with.

And that’s fine. We like to think we’re strong…we’ve been expecting to have to deal with this for a long time.

Saul had to return to teaching. He had a full summer break and is already starting a new year. I don’t remember what he did this summer excepting the usual travels and honey-dos. He’s already back in full swing and kicking ass as Uncle Saul.

Deborah is currently laying on her back baking up her third daughter. She took the opportunity to name this one after dad forever removing the options for the rest of us to make naming tributes to our parents. No big surprise there…just Deborah getting what she wants. That is okay because – after all – she has to leave this world a Gordon so she can be allowed this.

I’m going to collect all of the Keene-in-laws in one group. I mean no disrespect here but they share a bond in their roles. Their strength is beyond our comprehension. They have to endure our grief. They have to understand without quite understanding. They have to coordinate and support and do it all without sometimes even receiving thanks because grief can be so preoccupying. They do so gracefully. I can only pray that I am as patient and sympathetic.

I’ll avoid talking about myself much more because writing is really just my ego in overdrive other than to say I buried myself in my job excelling at a great pace. I’ve allowed it to take much of my time. I’ve relied upon and alienated friends. And I’m kicking around doing something more with my life. Overall, I’m doing “as expected”. Though I always end up exceptionally grateful and hope the same for others. But, usually I just put my big boy panties on and deal with the day.

If my mom had to buy big girl panties for a nickel, she might be broke by now. She retired this year if you haven’t already heard. Here’s a picture taken at her retirement party:

It is one of the best family pictures we’ve ever taken minus Wil and dad. It is interesting that we all remained smiling and some semblance of happy. It will always leave me slightly paralyzed as it reminds me of the new definition of the Keene family. As I am sure it does others. But we are still here…trying to be happy and enjoying the gift of being together. We will continue to cope. Things seem mostly positive, a bit pointless, and nothing seems guaranteed.